Here again he is the center of attention. Indian railway stations are synonymous with confusion, noise, and chaos. At the gates to the station, a sea of red-shirted, dirty-turbaned coolies with railway armbands wait like vultures to swoop on passengers. They eye Peter suspiciously but leave him alone when they see he has no luggage for them to carry. The only thing he wants carried is himself!

A BLESSED BREAK FOR TEA

Chai wallahs (tea sellers) line the platforms. Their hot brews leave a cloud of rising steam around their stoves. Peter heads to one of these stalls, stepping over sleeping bodies on the way. Chai in India is cheap at three rupees (46 rupees to $1 USD) per cup and very sweet. It is made by boiling the water with tea leaves, milk, and sugar all at once.

The sweetness nourishes Peter and gives him enough energy to queue for an hour, with sweat pouring off him, for a bus ticket back to Mussoorie. The wait is worth it and he gets a seat, but even in India no one wants to sit next to a smelly, sweaty runner. From Dehra Dun, it is 1.5 hours to Mussoorie and a climb to 6,000 feet.

Unfortunately the bus drops him at the opposite end of the bazaar, and to get home is another 40-minute, 1,000-foot climb. He runs back through the bazaar that is now brimming with tourists eating candy floss and kids with balloons. Others are amusing themselves on horseback or in the pinball parlors.

This is the fashionable avenue, the Mall, which starts from the library and runs through the Kulri Bazaar. At night, the lights and signs transform the Mall into a tacky, cheap tourist paradise.

He winds up past Jubilee Cinemas and Picture Palace—the best place to get a taxi. But there is no taxi-catching for Peter, and he continues the steep hike up Mullingar Hill. At least the temperature is cool, and he enters the guesthouse at 12:00 noon in time for lunch. With a round of applause from the residents, he sits down to a steaming plate of rice, vegetables, and chapatis (bread).

That night the monsoon mists vanish again to reveal the lights of Haridwar and Rishikesh, holy cities built on the Ganges River, twinkling like some magical fairyland. Today’s 35K run has made Peter hungry for the final of his three tuns: a pilgrimage run beside the Ganges, the religious lifeblood of the country, squirming and snaking along the Dun Valley floor.

He thought of running by the riverbanks thronged with sadhus (holy men) and pilgrims doing penance and pujas. He could already smell the incense offerings and bodies being cremated and hear the prayer cries to God.

Well, as they say in India, “Cul acha hai Sahib” (Tomorrow is good, sir.).

The third and final part of this series will run in our next issue. i

A Tale of Two Bostons

For Good or III, Boston Isn’t What It Used to Be. It’s the Same but Completely Different.

ace director David McGillivray, dressed in silver jacket and red cap, both

bearing the logo of the Boston Athletic Association, moves like a water bug across the surface of a pond as he supervises the start of the 109th running of the Boston Marathon. Pointing and gesturing like the conductor of a symphony orchestra, McGillivray shifts a motorcycle policeman forward a few feet, coaxes several of the wheelchair athletes back behind the starting line, and next clears a lane so the elite women can warm up while waiting for their start six minutes after the wheelchairs.

It’s a normal day at Hopkinton Green—that is, if that day is Patriots’ Day, a holiday in Massachusetts, the day the marathon is held. The Green swarms with vendors, spectators, and local residents just walking about on a warm and sunny spring morning.

The narrow road leading to Boston contains, crunched together in corrals, 18,319 runners, most of them having posted fast qualifying times in order to enter what, arguably, is America’s most prestigious road race.

Standing beside the starting line with three press passes for access to various areas hung around my neck and prior to boarding the press truck for a ride (instead of a run) into Boston, I glance up at the flag-bedecked reviewing platform and see Senator John Kerry standing above me holding a starting pistol, hardly a weapon of mass destruction but effective enough for getting the show moving. Standing beside him is the B.A.A.’s executive director, Guy Morse, dressed nattily in a blue blazer with the organization’s unicorn logo on his breast pocket.

Morse’s job on race day includes attending to all the ceremonial aspects of Boston, everything from the firing of the start pistol to crowning the winners with laurel wreaths. Meanwhile, McGillivray does his water bug act, his main worry whether people to whom he has delegated responsibility (including 6,300 volunteers) complete their assigned tasks with dexterity and honor. If both men have done their jobs the preceding 364 days, the Boston Marathon will move forward like the smoothly oiled machine it is, and half a million spectators can watch 18,319 runners happily cover 26 miles, 385 yards from Hopkinton to Boston.